


sober.

by goandneverlookback



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drinking, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, F/F, Halloween, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 12:08:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25969429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goandneverlookback/pseuds/goandneverlookback
Summary: She wants everything to be numb, forgotten.She wants every second the day has to offer and then more.
Relationships: Trixie Mattel/Katya Zamolodchikova
Kudos: 16





	sober.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: this is in no way about the real people behind T&K. This is a little bit about people I actually know, and probably more than a little bit about the dozens of people I've watched go through this in the past few years. The words happened and then I realized this was a nice way to wrap up the end, and now I get to share it with you all.  
> TW: drugs, alcohol, hallucinations, mentions of self harm/suicide

Alcohol will always be her vice, the way it burns her throat as it numbs her mind. She drinks and the world slows down, her worries fall away, the past and the future forgotten for the here and now. There's been other vices she dabbled with in the past, but the harder drugs and meaningless sex could never wipe her mind like vodka could. 

She shakes when she's on them, but then again, at this point she shakes when she doesn't take them too. There aren't enough hours in the day to experience everything the world has to offer and she demands all of the hours life will give her. The person staring back at her from the mirror looks like a stranger. She doesn't look accomplished and invincible; she looks tired and frazzled, like she stuck her finger in an outlet, which is a surprisingly good metaphor for how she feels. Energy courses through her at high speeds and right now there so much to do and she can do all of it. Until she can't.

The memories start to come back in the day now, and so the vodka comes too. It's not a few drinks after dinner, or getting a little too drunk at the club, laughing too loud and making out with too many girls. It's the organized row of bottles sat by the garbage, waiting to be taken out to the recycle whenever she's not too drunk to notice how many of them there's become. It's the vanilla scent that follows her and the vanilla vodka in her water bottle. It's the way her head aches and her hands start to shake when she's away from home for a weekend. It's way her friends don't come around anymore, but she convinces herself she doesn't need them, because she doesn't need anyone. She has herself and her bottle. Until she doesn't.

She wonders if she's finally snalled. She doesn't know what day it is, or how many days it's been since she's slept, but she paces her room while the city sleeps, climbing onto the bed, hiding in the furthest corner when the shadows come back. They writhe and move across the floor, up the wall, larger than life, whispering only to her. They tell her terrible things, that she's not good enough, that she'll never be good enough, that she's a failure, a waste of space. They taunt her. They tell her the bottle is almost full, let's do all of them. And she almost believes them. She almost listens. Almost. But she has the smallest bit of self left, and she lunges across the room to the bottle of pills on the dresser and sprints to the bathroom, flushing the pills down the drain, ripping up the number of her contact before sending that down the toilet as well. She sits in the brightly lit, windowless bathroom, shaking, until sleep finally brings relief shortly after dawn.

She wakes up on the floor of the bathroom, vomit in her hair and a knife clenched in her fist. She doesn't know how she got there, or where she was beforehand, or why she has a knife. Her head pounds as she moves to a sitting position, blinking against the bright light. She groans as she crawls over to the shower, pulling the curtain and turning on the water before rising to shaky feet to pull off her clothes from the night before. The water isn't quite warm yet and it brings her around a bit. As the water warms up, she turns from where it's been hitting her back to let the water rinse her chest, the off spray misting her face, beginning to remove the grime. She hisses as the water hits her thighs and looks down. There, right above her right knee, is the cause of her discomfort. A thin red line runs horizontally a couple inches across the front of her thigh. She leans a hand down to run her hand down beside it and the muscles remember. The cold blade of the knife, pressing down as she sat sobbing on the floor. She sinks down to sit in the shower, dissolving into tears once again. She though had everything under control. How she let things get so bad? The water runs cold and she pulls herself out of the shower, a little cleaner than before. She pours the vodka down the kitchen sink, her face a blank slate. The last bottle joins the lineup and they're unceremoniously thrown in a bag and taken out to the recycle. The apartment is a disaster but right now she is too drained to care. She lugs her tired body to bed, pulling the curtains as sleep overtakes her.

She sits in the shower, rocking back and forth, unaware of the tears streaming down her face, across the chattering of her jaw. Every one of her muscles feels tight enough to snap. The hot water runs out and she gets out of the shower, throwing on a loose shirt and underwear after drying off. Back in her room she goes to ease into her familiar yoga routine. The poses feel foreign and unbalanced. It's been so long, and her muscles are tighter than they've ever been, and she can't stop trembling. She focuses her energy harder and swears she'll get through it, staring at the blank wall of her bedroom as she eases into a stretch, the memory of the shadows still all too fresh.

The TV plays something in the background as she paces around the room, staring at the ceiling and breathing in through her nose before carefully blowing the breath out through pursed lips. It's been three days and the nausea is at its worst, and she can't stop sweating. She resigns herself to her third shower of the day, just in time. The water running and just barely out of her clothes, nausea overtakes her and she's left kneeling naked in front of the toilet, vomiting the meager bit of food and fluids she's managed to keep down today. She healing scab on her right leg tugs and she remembers, as she's dry heaving until her head spins, just how much she has to do this.

Months pass, seasons come and go, and she's convinced herself she can do this. It's Halloween, for fuck's sake. She has to go. She wants to. Her costume looks good, her figure a little fuller than it had been in the spring, more limber with the consistent yoga practice. She dances the line between spooky and sexy and just all over weird, but she loves it. It's so _her,_ without anything else. 

Her heels sound too loud on the steps up to the club, but as soon as she opens the door, any sound of footsteps are drowned out by the pumping bass. She shows her ID and walks towards the bar, one of the bartenders raising a familiar hand in greeting. She gives a small wave as she crosses the small bar, trying not to shake as she takes a deep breath and asks for...water. The bartender nods, his eyes kind as he pours two glasses of water, pushing them both across the bar to her, point out a short blonde bob across the way to take the second to, and she thanks him, and doesn't question too much as she weaves in an out of people to the tall tables at the back. 

She bounces her rapidly as she chews on the tiny straw of her drink. It's loud here, almost too loud, but she missed it. The environment, the people, the shows. She's so lost in her head she almost misses the tall blonde standing by her table, holding out a glass. She follows the line of the arm up, taking in the immaculate makeup and understated costume of the woman in front of her. "Um, no thanks. I...don't drink." The woman nods, a haunted look crossing her eyes, and Katya begins to see behind the resting bitch face and hair teased to the heavens. 

She catches the corner of the inside of her lip as she takes a deep breath, setting down the drink. "Me either. It's water." She nods back to the bar. "He sent me." The smaller blonde in front of her stares, studying her with those startlingly blue green eyes. Eventually she relents and nods, pushing back the other stool at the table with her toes, silently suggesting the she sit. She takes the seat, feeling the other girl's eyes on her the entire time. When she looks back up, her head is cocked lightly to the side, eyes still looking through to her soul, and somehow not judging what they've found.

"What's your name, doll?"

"Trixie."

"I'm Katya."

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer II: please, for the love of all that is good and evil and anything in between, do not try to detox at home, especially off of alcohol. Seek help. It's out there. If you don't know how to find it, come talk to me and I'll help you. Be safe loves.  
> Thanks for reading 💕


End file.
